


play this game a little longer

by kickedshins



Series: fellas is it gay to attempt to kill your best friend of twenty-five years [1]
Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, but make it gay, cara calroy wlw mlm hostility, donetta gets to do little a familicide and be a little evil. as a treat., except it isn't cute because calroy is bleeding out from a leg wound, sorry for posting 5+1 fic in 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26219272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickedshins/pseuds/kickedshins
Summary: Calroy pulls the crumpled-up crest he stole off the knight he killed from his pocket. “I’m a knight of House Cruller,” he lies, though, really, it’s not so much of a lie now. Calroy of House Cruller. Calroy, the man powerful enough to create truth out of fabrications with nothing but his voice. Calroy, the man who got closer to killing the Prince than any well-thought-out assassination attempt from any of the warring countries has. Calroy, the Prince’s newest friend.orFive times Calroy almost stuck a dagger into Amethar's back, and one time he did.
Relationships: Calroy Cruller/Amethar Rocks
Series: fellas is it gay to attempt to kill your best friend of twenty-five years [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904170
Comments: 30
Kudos: 24





	1. both becoming your friend and bleeding out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic RAPIDLY became MUCH longer than i thought it'd be so i'm going to give each segment its own chapter because goodness knows i do not need this thing being like. a 20k oneshot. i will def have the entire thing posted within a few days. if you want to know what i based the made up calroy lore on, it'll be in the end notes :p enjoy!

1.

Calroy’s realizing he might not have thought this through very well.

It was a good plan in theory: murder a knight, take his place, keep on hauling himself to the top until there were no more bodies into which he could stick daggers. It was a great plan in theory, actually, considering he’s been watching the knights of House Cruller train for years, considering he’s been practicing in secret, considering he’s twenty years old and  _ still  _ not permitted to don armor and wield a sword, considering he knows he deserves better than the hand he’s dealt, considering he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make a name for himself.

He sort of failed to factor in the possibility that the man he was attempting to assassinate would not go without a struggle.

So now he’s stumbling through a deserted Ceresian field with a dagger stuck in his thigh, dripping blood onto an expanse of beige as he searches for somewhere safe, anywhere safe, to lie down. A knight of House Cruller is dead behind a tree somewhere, throat slit and patch with his crest stuffed into Calroy’s pocket, and Calroy prays that he didn’t kill him for nothing.

He’s determined to get himself into this war one way or another. It’s not that he has any particularly patriotic inclinations—in fact, he’s still not  _ entirely  _ sure why this war is being fought—but it’s the only way he’s going to be able to make it somewhere. He’s spent too long cleaning armor and running letters to nearby estates and tending to the fucking meeps. He’s an adult. He’s a capable man. He’s going to fight in this war, and he’s going to survive it, and he’s going to be known in years to come as the man who… well, he’s not entirely sure just yet. The man who did something. The man who made a difference. 

Calroy is going to be in the history books. He knows it.

He’s just got to survive first.

He can’t go on much longer. Eventually, he collapses to the ground, and he really thinks he might die here. Blood streams down his leg from around the hilt of the dagger that’s sticking out of it, and he’s nearly unconscious, and he’s probably not going to be found for a very, very long while, because the sheaves of wheat that surround his supine body are very, very high, and he is very, very alone.

He lays there for what feels like hours. The crest of House Cruller in his unbloodied pocket seems to burn, and if this damned estate is what ends up killing him, it will, at the very least, be a beautifully ironic example of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Either die of boredom and wasted potential growing from a page to a squire to a glorified secretary within its walls, or die away from the battlefield, disgraced, a traitor to the House he’s supposed to serve. A traitor to the House he knows he could do a damn good job of being in charge of.

Suddenly, the sheaves around him break and part. He feels a hand around his forearm before he sees the face of the person it belongs to, and he pulls the dagger out of his leg with a wince and a bitten-off scream and swings it recklessly at his attacker.

“Whoa!” comes a voice. The person hauling to his feet dodges out of the way in enough time to avoid being stabbed, but not in enough time to avoid being slashed across an exposed forearm. “I’m a friend.”

Calroy knows who the Prince is. Calroy has seen his face in educational texts, on posters, in works of art. He’s in his early twenties and has done nothing to deserve the love he gets besides being born with a head that could one day wear a crown, and Calroy hates him.

“That you are,” Calroy says, smiling. He wills his voice to be smooth. He wills his nerves to not jump. “Sorry for, ah, almost killing you, Prince Amethar.”

“Please,” Amethar says, waving away his title like it means nothing, like it’s that easy to disregard. “I’m a soldier, not some boring nobility.”

“Can’t you be both?” Calroy questions, and he should be biting his tongue, should be humbling himself before a man so much taller than he is both in stature and in name, but he also wants to play this game a little longer. Wants to see where it takes him. 

That, or the blood loss is making him delirious. He grips Amethar’s wrist a bit tighter to keep himself from swaying to the side.

“Sure,” Amethar shrugs. “I guess. A man can be many, many things at once. I’m not that kind of man, though. Very one-track. My sisters love to give me hell for it, as if they’re not all the same way.”

“I am,” Calroy tells him. “That kind of man, that is. Multi-faceted.”

“Oh, really?” Amethar’s smile is light, his tone teasing.

“Of course. I’m both becoming your friend and bleeding out.”

Panicked, Amethar quickly drops to a knee, pulling Calroy down with him. He lays Calroy out on the ground and scans him frantically. “Blee– Bulb above, man, why didn’t you say something before? Where? Can you sit up?”

“I was standing a minute ago, though only with your help, so I think I’ll pass on attempting to sit up.” Calroy coughs weakly, and thankfully, no blood runs from his lips. “The wound is on my right leg. I’m surprised you didn’t see it before.”

“Yeah, well,” Amethar says. “I was a little preoccupied with not being killed by you.” He takes the dagger out of Calroy’s hand and quickly cuts his right pant leg off at the top of his thigh. The material clings to Calroy’s leg, sticky with blood, but Amethar manages to pull it all off.

“Oh,” he says. “That, uh, that doesn’t look good.”

“Could you help me with it?” Calroy asks, voice mildly more snippy than he’d been aiming for.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’ll try my best. Sorry, I don’t know much in the way of patching people up,” Amethar apologizes.

Calroy isn’t surprised. Of course the Prince doesn’t know how to heal. Of course he’s more focused on cutting people down with brute force, on the showy parts of war. This is probably a game to him.

Amethar uses the dagger to cut a strip from his own shirt, and Calroy takes a moment to appreciate the flash of muscles Amethar’s partially bare stomach displays, because he may not like this man as a person, but he has no moral qualms about enjoying him as a body. Amethar ties that strip around Calroy’s leg, tight, making a tourniquet, and pours some cola from the canteen at his side onto Calroy’s wound, doing his best to clean it.

“Do you think you can wal— no, that’s a stupid question, your leg is practically mauled, you sure as hell cannot walk,” Amethar says. “I’m gonna carry you to the nearest Candian base, alright? Get you some medical attention.”

“You… I never said I was Candian. What if you’re bringing an enemy into your midst?” 

“Even if you weren’t Candian, I’m not about to leave an innocent person to die,” Amethar says, and Calroy is reminded of the fact that he’s in civilian clothing, which draws his attention to the fact that Amethar’s in civilian clothing, too. “Besides, I don’t think an enemy would say shit like  _ what if you’re bringing an enemy into your midst _ , so I’m gonna assume I’m safe around you.”

“Fair,” Calroy says, smiling a bit at the irony. Smiling a bit at Amethar, too, as much as he’d be loath to admit that.

Amethar scoops Calroy up bridal-style as easily and comfortably as if he were picking up his sword. He holds Calroy close to his chest, and his fingers are a warm weight against Calroy’s arm and uninjured thigh. 

“You good?” Amethar asks.

“Feeling fantastic,” Calroy assures him. “And, really, I’m sorry for almost stabbing you before. I assumed you were someone coming to finish off the job and acted on self-preservational instinct.”

“Finish the job? What the hell are you talking about?” Amethar’s strides are big—his legs are very long—but slow, slow enough that Calroy’s leg doesn’t jostle as Amethar’s steps land, and Calroy’s a bit taken aback at how careful he’s being. He didn’t think a foolhardy prince would have such consideration for his people.

“I was out scouting,” Calroy quickly lies, “and I ran into a Ceresian who was also scouting. The fight didn’t end so well for me, though I did manage to get out alive, as you can see.”

“Okay, but why were you scouting without any sort of protective gear on you?”

“An oversight on my part,” Calroy says. “A squire back at camp was cleaning it, and I didn’t want to bother any of my comrades in arms to lend me theirs. Besides, I am a bit, ah, small, if you hadn’t noticed. It’s not impossible to find armor that fits me, but it can be difficult at times.”

“I’d noticed,” Amethar says. Kindly, though. Not at all like how Calroy’s brothers might say it, or how the knight whom Calroy once served would. 

Neither of those are issues now, though. Calroy hasn’t seen his brothers since he left home to be a page when he was very young, and Calroy’s former knight lies dead in a Ceresian field somewhere. The only thing Calroy has to remember him by is the gash on his leg that’s staining Amethar’s royal hands.

“I won’t bother you much longer,” Amethar assures him, and some strange, blood-deprived part of Calroy wants to tell Amethar that it’s alright, that he doesn’t mind talking to him. “I just— I don’t know your name.”

“Calroy,” Calroy says, and he thinks of the house he’s served for too many thankless years, of the knight he murdered less than an hour ago, of the leeway being a personal friend of the Prince of Candia might provide to him. “Calroy, knight of House Cruller.”

“Great,” Amethar says. “Well, Cal, you can take a nap, if you want. Don’t fuck yourself over trying to stay awake for my benefit. Rest is healing. I think.”

“Thanks,” Calroy laughs. He’s surprised to find that his amusement is genuine. “Again, I’m sorry about almost killing you.”

“That’s your third apology. I promise you, I don’t mind. Now, really, you might wanna try to sleep the rest of the way back to camp. It’s still kinda a trek from here. Don’t want you dying on me after all this,” Amethar says. He pulls Calroy a little closer to his chest and picks up his pace just a touch.

“Goodnight, Your Highness,” Calroy says.

“It’s the middle of the day. And, please, no need to call me  _ Your Highness _ , especially if we’re not around other people. I wish no one called me Your Highness.” Amethar’s voice is just a bit too bitter to not be implying that he wishes he wasn’t at all a  _ Your Highness _ , full stop, but Calroy’s too injured and exhausted to deal with that piece of information right now, so he files it into his mental bank for later.

“Well. Good day to you, Amethar.”

“Good day to you too, Cal.”

Calroy’s eyes flutter shut, and he nestles inwards towards Amethar, towards this very solid man, towards the embodiment of the royalty he’s hated with a vehemence for as long as he can remember. He passes out to the sound of Amethar’s heartbeat, and his last thought before his vision goes black is that Amethar’s arms and Amethar’s warmth surrounding him wouldn’t be so bad of a thing to get used to.

When he comes to, there’s a beautiful woman standing over him, one hand on his thigh and the other over his heart. She notices that he’s awake instantly. “How are you doing, Calroy?” she asks.

His head feels like it’s been cut open and filled with static electricity. His thigh feels as stiff and as fragile as a thin piece of peanut brittle. His mouth is dry and his eyes are watering and he’s pretty sure if he tries to sit up he’ll pass right out again.

“Never better,” he tells her.

“Great,” she says, smiling in a way that indicates she knows he’s bullshitting her, and that’s when he realizes that Citrina Rocks herself is mending his leg, and he doesn’t know whether to feel starstruck or disgusted or just plain apathetic. He’s never really put much stock in the Bulb’s teachings. He was raised a different faith, but it’s easy enough to pretend he cares about the Bulb, what with the way it’s shoved down the throat of everyone in every kingdom. And, sure, Candia’s more tolerant than a place like Vegetania might be, but he knows that if he wants his power-climb ploy to work, he’s going to have to play the part of a good little Bulbian.

So he lets his jaw drop just a bit, and he says, “Primogen Rocks? It’s an honor to be healed by you.”

“Oh, I implore you, don’t act as if I’m anything other than a person. I’m the same as you.”

_ You can bleed like me _ , he thinks.  _ You can fight like me, but you don’t, even though this is your country. Even though this is your war. _

Citrina’s known all around Calorum. The youngest miracle-worker in decades, and the most powerful, too. A staunch pacifist who’s given up the title of  _ Princess  _ to focus on the purity of the light of the Bulb, or whatever. A talented healer who travels to as many camps of Candia and their allies as she can, blessing everyone with her presence and her soothing touch.

Calroy’s always thought she was a bit overrated. For someone who claims to not want the limelight that comes with the package of being royalty, she sure does stir up a lot of drama. She sure does get a lot of attention.

Besides, even after forsaking the crown, she’s a household name. Calroy is bitter with anger.

“Of course,” Calroy says to her. “Thank you, Citrina.”

She smiles at that. He’s sure people don’t normally respect her wishes to be treated like a normal person instead of some infallible embodiment of holiness. He’s sure she likes him already.

“You should rest for another day,” Citrina instructs. “After that, we can see how your leg is doing, and you can figure out the best course of action for you from there on out.”

“I will,” Calroy says. He gives his best attempt at a nod, and his body flashes through with pain as he attempts to move. “So sorry to bother you further, but do you think you have anything to drink? I’m rather dehydrated, I think.”

“Of course!” Citrina says. “In fact, I’m already taking care of that.”

The tent’s flaps part and Amethar walks in, unarmed and with a large glass of cola in hand. Déjà vu hits Calroy like a runaway carriage. Was it really just a few hours ago that Amethar found him lying on his back like this amidst the wheat of the fields of Ceresia?

“Hi,” Amethar says, and attempts to wave with the hand that’s holding the drink. He spills a bit of the cola on the floor, and Calroy tries very hard to stifle a laugh.

“I’ll leave you to get your rest,” Citrina says. She gives Amethar a look that Calroy, for all his people-person skills, can’t begin to decipher, and Calroy feels jealousy biting at his stomach like acid. Oh, siblings.

She stops by another injured person in the nearly-empty infirmary tent, whispering a quick blessing over them, and then she’s gone.

Almost as soon as Citrina is out of the tent, Amethar is helping Calroy slowly lean up to sitting.

“I’m not that fragile,” Calroy assures him. “But thank you for your help, Your Highness.”

“I don’t know if you forgot it during the you-almost-dying debacle,” Amethar says, “but you don’t need to pull the whole Highness thing.” His voice is firm, steady, but his eyes flash with irritation.

Ah. So he  _ really  _ doesn’t like it. Noted.

“Apologies. Must have gotten all mixed up somewhere between nearly bleeding out and waking up in the arms of one of the holiest people in the land.”

“That’s my sister, man, and I’m pretty sure she’s taken a vow of chastity.”

Calroy can’t help the snort that flies out of him. “I can promise you with the utmost sincerity that I’m not trying to get into her good graces for any sort of self-serving reason.” And, Bulb above, his head aches with an unparalleled fury. He takes the cola from Amethar’s hand and downs it all in a few short gulps.

“You want some more?” Amethar asks.

Instead of answering  _ yes, please, right now _ , Calroy says, “Don’t you have better things to do than sit at the bedside of a man you just met?”

“You’re a Candian soldier,” Amethar shrugs. “My duty is to my people. I serve that both on and off the battlefield. Besides, Rococoa—Rococoa’s my sister,” Amethar adds, as if Calroy doesn’t know who General Rococoa is, as if he and everyone else in this country doesn’t have the Rocks siblings’ names memorized, as if he doesn’t know the order of succession and the contingency plans and anything else he’s managed to glean from the letters that pass through Muffinfield, “Rococoa says I need to take some time to recuperate after spending days straight fighting, and if Rococoa says I’m doing too much, I know I’m sure as hell doing too much. Plus she kind of scares me. It’s not worth it to argue with her.”

The high-and-mighty Prince is not so high-and-mighty. Calroy isn’t sure whether he should be upset or delighted at that realization.

“And you decided to give back to the people by granting the injured the grace of your presence?”

Amethar rolls his eyes. “I just wanted to make sure the guy I saved had actually, y’know, been saved. I don’t know what I would have done with myself had you died.”

“I’m just one man. Lots of us die in war.”

“Hopefully less do under my watch,” Amethar says, putting his hand gently on Calroy’s shoulder. “Now, do you want to explain why you were alone, unarmed, and unarmored again to me?”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Calroy says, lips curling into a playful smile, and Amethar clears his throat just a little too abruptly.

“Really, though,” Amethar says. “I know you said you were scouting, but normally people put together groups for that sort of thing. And normally those groups have more on them than a dagger in their leg.”

Calroy sighs. He sits a little further up, and thank the Bulb for the hydration of cola, because he already feels a bit better. “You’re right,” Calroy says. “You caught me in a lie.”

“I did?” Amethar sounds so unabashedly proud of himself that it makes Calroy’s neck heat up.

“You did. I wasn’t scouting. I was just going to take a walk. Ill-advised, I know, when in enemy territory, but I thought not wearing armor might keep someone from attacking me. I was wrong, I suppose. Those Ceresians stab first and ask questions second. I managed to get away, though I don’t think I should go back to my original camp, lest some Commander there finish off what the Ceresian started. I just… ugh, I needed a bit of freedom, you know? Everything is so stiflingly regimented. And, yes, I understand that that’s for our safety, but, really, can’t a man catch a bit of a break sometimes? The responsibilities of being a knight are quite a burden to bear.” Calroy spreads his hands apologetically, gives Amethar a  _ what can you do about it _ sort of look, and watches Amethar fall right into his trap.

“I know what you mean,” Amethar murmurs. “Trust me, I sure as hell know what you mean. That’s, uh. That’s actually why I was out alone, too, and without my armor. You know my armor has the royal fuckin’ seal on it? Which is ridiculous. Like, paint a target right on my breastplate, why don’t you? Anyway. It all gets too much sometimes, you know? Overwhelming. And, sorry, I really don’t mean to pour everything out onto you, especially because you’ve known me for all of five hours and are recovering from nearly bleeding to death, but. Just. I want you to know that I sympathize.”

Calroy watches Amethar’s face, watches his soft eyes and his strong jaw and the way he clings to youth like it’s something he’s already close to losing at just twenty-three years of age, and sees a man whose strings will be unbelievably easy to pull. Sees a future he can build for himself right in front of his eyes. Sees it in the Prince of Candia himself. And, no, he wouldn’t consider himself a Bulbian, but something up there must be looking out for him, because Calroy has hit the luck jackpot.

“I get it,” Calroy assures him. He reaches up and takes Amethar’s hand, takes it off of his shoulder, and holds it for just a second too long before letting go. “You don’t need to worry about complaining to me. After all, that’s what friends are for, are they not? And, well, I don’t mean to be presumptuous in the presence of royalty, especially in the presence of royalty I've just met, but I’d sure hope we’re friends.”

Amethar’s face breaks into a smile. Before he can say anything, though, Calroy sighs, “I’ll have to deal with a lot of shit when I get back to my camp,” his voice just shy of melodramatic.

And Amethar—Amethar and his desire to do good, to be liked, to make things easy—says, “You know, there might be another way around that.”

“Really?” Calroy raises an eyebrow and bites back the urge to beg for another glass of cola and pushes the pain in his recovering thigh deep, deep down, because he’s got a Prince on his line and he is just seconds away from reeling in what is sure to be the biggest catch of his life.

“Sure. Join this legion,” Amethar says, excitement pouring off of the tip of his tongue. “Fight alongside me. No one has to know it was any other way. I can say you’re a new soldier joining us from—where’d you say you were from, again?”

Calroy pulls the crumpled-up crest he stole off the knight he killed from his pocket. “I’m a knight of House Cruller,” he lies, though, really, it’s not so much of a lie now. Calroy of House Cruller. Calroy, the man powerful enough to create truth out of fabrications with nothing but his voice. Calroy, the man who got closer to killing the Prince than any well-thought-out assassination attempt from any of the warring countries has. Calroy, the Prince’s newest friend. 

“Well, Calroy of House Cruller. It’ll be an honor to serve alongside you.”

“You, too, Amethar,” Calroy says. Already a plan for the future is unfolding in his head. Already he’s drafting missives to Ceresia, to Vegetania, to the friends he’ll make in high places. Already he can feel the phantom weight of a crown atop his head. “I can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi ! thank you all for reading ! the calroy background stuff is based on the made-up lore my friend texted to me that i'm going to copy-paste below:
> 
> beautiful sorta sidenote to first meetings im obsessed w the idea of cal like rising to a shred of influence by chance like maybe being a page of a cake knight in the early days of the war and then in one of (if not the first) battles the knight dies unexpectedly and calroy picks up his sword (having meticulously and yearningly watched said knights training as a page) and fights.. but essentially assumes the knight’s identity and is like i was given this opportunityand chance to break out by the bulb i cannot squander it and i cant reveal this ever happened this is who i am now  
> and like bc of post war politics rises through ranks bc of his performance during war and gains political influence through his connections to military equal amethar and cheese knights
> 
> so yeah thats where this is all sort of coming from. Anyway thank you for reading! kudos/comments always appreciated :D and you can find me on twitter @commaperson


	2. no social change without upheaval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s gotten to be a very convincing liar. And, more importantly, he’s gotten to be very familiar with what makes Amethar tick. He knows what face he has to wear to get Amethar to worry about him, to get Amethar to think he’s hanging on to Amethar’s every word, to get Amethar to follow him around like a lost puppy dog. He knows how Amethar operates, and he knows how to play him like a fiddle.
> 
> And yet. And yet. And yet. Amethar keeps on surprising him. Every time he thinks he can read Amethar like an open book, every time he thinks he can pull Amethar around like a marionette on strings, Amethar somehow proves him wrong.
> 
> Metaphors and wordplay. Masks, deception. Amethar cuts through Calroy’s layers with an earnestness that awakens something deep in Calroy’s stomach that he’d prefer to keep dormant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and welcome to chap2! in this one we actually live up to the summary description of the entire fic because chapter one was a Lie he didn't almost knife him in the back in that one. in this one he does tho! more lore dumping in the end notes if you wish to see it. enjoy! <3

2.

Donetta Cruller has always been a bit overfamiliar with people her parents don’t approve of. Calroy can’t think of a time when they weren’t friends, when he wouldn’t steal snacks from the kitchen to bring to her, when she wouldn’t sit him down and trace over letters with him until his handwriting was indistinguishable from her royal script. Can’t think of a time when he didn’t complain about having to clean some ungrateful knight’s shield, when she didn’t smile apologetically and regale him with the latest unfair rule her parents had imposed upon her.

She’s been better to him than most. He’s been better to her than most.

He writes to her during the war. She tells him that her parents continue to restrict her freedoms, continue to dictate her every move, continue to confine her to the estate. He does have sympathy for her, really; it’s not just her complaining about the fabricated hardships that royalty face, it’s her complaining about not being permitted to be a human being. Not being permitted to be anything but an offshoot of her parents’ wishes.

She’s been wanting to be free of them since practically birth. And he’s still not technically a knight of house Cruller, and though he knows no one’s going to check his identity—it’s war, they need as many bodies fighting as possible—there remains that tiny bit of worry that itches at the back of his mind. He thinks he can figure something out that would rid them of their problems, though. He thinks he can figure out a way for her to get her freedom and him to get his power, and for the two of them to be able to make some real changes in the House that’s kept them down for so long.

 _Donetta,_ he writes, _I have a proposition that could benefit the both of us_.

Her reply is quick. She’s more than happy to dispose of her parents and have him named as a successor alongside herself. And Calroy’s not surprised, really. Almost thirteen years of his influence must have rubbed off on her. 

Really, though, personal gain aside, this was a necessary move. The current Lord and Lady of the Cruller house do nothing but sit on their ass, accumulate riches, and refuse to treat those who work for them with any respect. There’s no social change without upheaval, and Calroy’s been ready to flip the estate on his head since he first arrived.

When news comes to the camp he and Amethar are at—in Fructera now, a land that Calroy’s never visited before, a land that, quite frankly, seems pretty boring—a week later about the passing of the Lord and Lady, Calroy does his best to act equal parts surprised, hurt, and grateful. Donetta’s letter is burning into nothing on the little fire in his tent, the paper reading _political marriage would be best, though you obviously don’t have to sign on to that right away, as I’m sure I should do a bit of windowshopping for potential suitors to strengthen alliances_ going up in smoke.

“Cal,” Amethar says, clapping him on the back, tone toeing the line between congratulatory and apologetic. “Or, should I say, Lord Calroy?”

It’s been a year of them fighting together, a year of victories and hardships and an accumulation of scars. A year of Calroy not regretting even for a second the masks he continues to add to his collection. A year of Amethar learning to trust him—learning to love him, even—and a year of Calroy staunchly not letting himself get attached in return. 

“Please,” Calroy laughs, waving off the title the way Amethar when they first met. “Just Calroy.”

“Whatever you wish,” Amethar assures him. “Do you want to take a walk?”

Calroy does. He’s got a dagger in his boot and Amethar’s not wearing armor and Calroy’s just barely started on this plan he’s cooking up with the young Bishop Brassica, but he knows an opportunity when he sees one, and one less Rocks in line for the throne is one less person to cut through when he wants to claim it for himself. 

Besides, Belizabeth says that once she’s Pontifex, her word will be good as law. When she’s Pontifex, when the war is won, when the Rocks are gone, when only those smart enough to stand on the bodies of the dead to keep themselves from drowning in a sea of blood are standing, she can pull just about any strings she wants to pull to ensure he’s king.

Amethar and Calroy amble off a little ways away from camp together, though they stay close enough to make sure that their going without armor on isn’t a terrible idea. Amethar’s arm is slung around Calroy’s shoulders, and it’s such a comforting weight that Calroy is almost disappointed when Amethar removes it. 

Amethar leans against a tree, one leg crossed over the other, and Calroy’s pissed, because it would be damn difficult to murder him from this angle. Amethar says, “You never told me you were on good enough terms with the Cruller patriarch and matriarch that you’d be given co-rulership of their estate. I’m sorry to hear about their passing, of course.”

“Of course,” Calroy replies, schooling his expression into that of barely-contained grief. He mimes brushing it away and looks Amethar in the eye, looks away, and looks back. 

He’s gotten to be a very convincing liar. And, more importantly, he’s gotten to be very familiar with what makes Amethar tick. He knows what face he has to wear to get Amethar to worry about him, to get Amethar to think he’s hanging on to Amethar’s every word, to get Amethar to follow him around like a lost puppy dog. He knows how Amethar operates, and he knows how to play him like a fiddle.

And yet. And yet. And yet. Amethar keeps on surprising him. Every time he thinks he can read Amethar like an open book, every time he thinks he can pull Amethar around like a marionette on strings, Amethar somehow proves him wrong.

Metaphors and wordplay. Masks, deception. Amethar cuts through Calroy’s layers with an earnestness that awakens something deep in Calroy’s stomach that he’d prefer to keep dormant.

“If you need anything…” Amethar begins, but Calroy cuts him off with a sad smile and a shake of his head.

“I’ll be alright. Thank you, though. And, yes, I’ve been quite close with Donetta– or, well, I should call her Lady Donetta now, shouldn’t I? I’ve been quite close with Donetta ever since I was very young. We did– well, we did as much as we were permitted to do together.” Half-truths and lies by omission. Calroy doesn’t get as much of a thrill out of blatantly lying to Amethar’s face as he used to a year ago.

“She liked playing in the dirt with the knights-to-be?” Amethar asks, amused. 

For a second, Calroy forgets that he’s got this elaborate cover story of being an actual knight. Amethar’s laughter is a brutal reminder of all he’s faked to get to this point, to be granted the immense privilege of suffering through a war just for the leadership of some small estate and the ear of the Prince who’s fourth in line for a throne upon which his eldest sister now sits. (Or, technically, fifth in line for a throne upon which his father continues to sit, but everyone knows Jadain ruled just about as much as his meep did. It was always Pamelia in charge, but she’s gone now, so the job of taking care of a kingdom Jadain can’t manage to handle has been passed on to Rococoa.)

“Sure did,” Calroy says, matching Amethar’s tone. “But she was never very good at swords. Not a very physical girl. Adept at other things, though. She could bake like nobody’s business, and she wrote fiction stories that would scandalize the cape right off your royal body.”

“Well!” Amethar says. His happy expression seems just a bit forced. “I’m sure she’ll be a wonderful wife.”

“W– Amethar, what? I’m not marrying her,” Calroy laughs.

“You’re not? But aren’t you Lord Cruller now?”

“I am,” Calroy agrees. “Donetta’s parents want—or, pardon my slip of the tongue, I should say _wanted_ , shouldn’t I? My apologies. This was all so abrupt, I’m still…” He lets his voice trail off, lets his eyes mist over, lets his gaze drop away from Amethar’s eyes.

“Cal?”

“Ah.” Calroy clears his throat and takes a deep breath in and gives Amethar a small, private smile. “Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes. Donetta’s parenents wanted us to take care of the estate together. They trusted me to do so, I suppose. And so did she. And I’m glad that they did! She’s just one woman. She can’t run it alone. No one can run anything alone, not even a relatively small estate on the Candian-Ceresian border. Besides, Amethar, she’s too young to get married. She’s twenty. And I’m not yet twenty-two.”

“Lazuli’s been betrothed since forever,” Amethar counters. “Twenty-two is a very normal age to get married. In fact, I’d say it’s late to be engaged.”

“Hypocrite,” Calroy counters. “You’re twenty-four and still single.”

Amethar shrugs. “Seems pretty illogical to tie a bachelor down during a time such as this. Much respect to my sister and her soon-to-be wife for committing to that.”

Calroy bites back a remark about Amethar’s habits, about Amethar’s propensity to disappear with a man or woman from the camp—or a nearby village on the days he and his friends, Calroy included, don civilian clothing and go into whatever local hamlet is nearby—and to come back a mess, about Amethar’s infuriatingly consistent refusal to bring Calroy on one of those escapades with him, and—

Whoa. No. Calroy does not want to be another one of Amethar’s conquests, and he stops himself before he can even think that he does. Besides, as much as he hates Amethar, as much as he can’t wait to plow through Amethar to get to the throne, it’d be unfair to label him more promiscuous than any of the rest of the group of war buddies are. Or as more promiscuous than Calroy himself. 

Calroy settles for giving Amethar a knowing smirk. “And, furthermore,” he continues, “you must remember that not everyone is as royal as you are. Normal people don’t begin networking for their child’s future spouse at five years of age.”

“Hmph,” Amethar says. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Calroy says smoothly. “So, no, we’re not getting married. I’m just helping her with the politics of it all, because that’s much less interesting to her than it is to me. After the war, of course. I’m not about to leave the frontlines to go do housework.”

“Oh,” Amethar says, and then, “are you going to marry her after the war?”

“I don’t know,” Calroy shrugs. “Maybe. It depends on if she wishes to marry someone else. That’s not up to me. And if she does, if it’s her desire to instate someone else as the new Lord—or Lady—of the house, that’s her business. I’m but a humble knight, Amethar. I’m just doing what I can to help.”

And he knows she’s not going to pick someone else, and he knows they’ll get married, and he knows that he’s not doing any of this to help, that he’s actively begun working against the man who considers him one of his closest friends, but it’s not as if he can tell Amethar the truth. He’s pretending to grieve over two people he instructed Donetta to poison. He’s complicit in patricide and matricide—though, really, does it count as that if Donetta barely ever considered them her parents in the first place?—and he feels nothing but excitement at how much farther up he can climb.

He doesn’t feel bad about all of this deception. His friendship with Amethar started out based on a lie, and Calroy knows it’ll continue to be one up until the very end. Knows it’ll be falsehood after falsehood until Calroy’s satisfied with his title. Until Amethar’s nothing but a shade of a memory at the back of his mind, a man who briefly entered Calroy’s life, was useful to him, and then was gone.

“That’s good,” Amethar says tentatively. “I wouldn’t want her to have to worry about a husband fighting in the war while also dealing with the loss of her parents.”

It hits Calroy like a bolt of lightning that Amethar is genuinely concerned about Calroy and Donetta being romantically involved. He tries to hold it back, but he can’t help the laughter that comes pouring out of him.

“Are you okay?” Amethar asks. “Is this– are you going into shock, or something? Are you, like– is this how you, I don’t know, process grief? Do you need anything? Should we get back to camp?” His brow is furrowed and his voice is frantic, concerned, and Calroy can’t help but feel a bit of affection and pity towards this man and his unending capacity for care when it comes to the people he loves.

“I’m fine,” Calroy reassures him. He leans over, hands on his knees, and catches his breath. “I’m fine. It’s just– Amethar, I don’t like women. Not romantically, at least. You know that, right?”

“Huh,” Amethar says. He tilts his head back so that the crown of his head is pressed against the bark of the tree behind him. He stands there like that for a moment, thinking, and then he straightens himself back out and says, “Yeah, no, yeah, that checks out. Like, obviously I knew about the liking men, I’ve seen you pick up guys when we sneak into towns near the camp, but. Yeah.”

Calroy bursts into another peal of laughter. “You… oh, Amethar. You never fail to entertain.”

Amethar gives him a sheepish smile. “Glad you like it.”

“Oh, trust me,” Calroy says, grin going sideways, “I more than like it.”

Amethar lets out a little _heh_ , a small noise for such a large man. “I appreciate how straightforward with me you always are. And that can carry over into talking about this, about the– the loss of the Crullers, you know? You don’t have to wear any sort of mask in front of me. I’ve got you, Cal. If you’re upset about people you were close to dying, you can say so. I was– man, I was a wreck when my mother died.”

That was almost two months ago, and Calroy had received a congratulatory letter from Belizabeth—only his third ever missive from her—about the path being just a bit clearer for him to get to the throne. Pamelia wasn’t killed by anything other than the misfortune and tragedy of war, but Calroy was happy to pretend it was a good omen for his and Belizabeth’s upward climb.

“Yeah,” Calroy says. “Thank you, Amethar. It’s good to know I can be honest around you.”

“Of course!” Amethar steps forward, away from the tree, and Calroy’s nerves catch on fire, because now his back is exposed and it would be so easy for Calroy to take the dagger from his boot and whip around Amethar and end him right then and there, but before he can move, his arms get pinned to his side by Amethar’s embrace.

“Um,” Calroy says, voice just a shade higher than he wants it to be, though he’s sure Amethar won’t be able to tell the difference. “I. Uh. You’re squeezing kinda tight, Amethar.”

“That’s the point, Calroy. I’m hugging you. ‘s comforting, isn’t it?” His voice is just a bit muffled from where he’s buried it in Calroy’s neck, and the stubble that’s frustratingly ever-present on his jaw tickles as it brushes against Calroy’s skin. 

Calroy feels tiny. Calroy feels on fire. Calroy feels like doing something stupid, because he’s in charge of a House he’s hated for ages and he’s running it alongside his childhood friend and he’s going to become King one day, going to win this war not for Candia but for himself, because no matter who the victor is, Calroy’s going to come out on top. No matter who sits on the throne of the Concordant Emperor, Calroy’s sure as hell going to be sitting on the throne of Candia. And, well. From there, there’s only a little further up to go.

“Thank you,” Calroy says. He hates how relaxed he feels, putty in Amethar’s arms. “It… yeah, it’s comforting.”

Amethar pulls back and puts his hands on Calroy’s shoulders and looks Calroy right in the eye and says, “If there’s anything else I can do for you, just let me know.”

The air between them feels thick. Calroy could cut it with the knife he wants so desperately to bury between Amethar’s ribs. Calroy could cut it with the knife he wants so desperately to stick into Amethar’s golden, bleeding heart.

“I should be alright,” Calroy tells him. “I’ll let you know if there’s anything. We should probably get back to camp now, shouldn’t we?”

“Uh huh,” Amethar says, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let Calroy move, either. Keeps him rooted to the spot with his hands on his shoulders. Pins Calroy in place with his eyes. “You… hey, ignore this if I’m being weird, and don’t think I’m doing this out of pity, or anything, but. Do you… want to kiss me?”

And as much as Calroy prides himself on understanding Amethar in a way only his sisters do despite knowing him for just a year, he did _not_ see that coming.

“I– what?”

“Do you want to kiss me?” Amethar repeats. “It’s just, you know, you’re sad, and I’m your friend, and it’s war, and I think we’re all kinda stressed, and this isn’t going to be a _thing_ , because like you said, we’re both young, and, I mean, courting, and– and _marriage_ , and that’s a whole lot of bullshit I don’t need to deal with, and I’m only going to have this freedom once, and I’m not trying to make this about me, obviously, when you’re grieving, and I want to be there for you, and I’m– look, I’m sorry I said something, I just know that after any of us pissed off Lazuli, she’d go looking for Caramelinda, and I– _Bulb above_ ,” Amethar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just don’t want you to be hurting anymore.”

“Amethar—”

“And don’t feel like you have to do anything because I’m, like, a Prince, or anything, because I’m not, or– or I don’t want to be, and did I mention this was war already? We’re just two soldiers taking advantage of the bit of freedom we’ve been granted. And you can say no, I’ve never come onto you before because we’re friends and I didn’t want to fuck any of that up, and I’ll drop this, and—”

“Your Highness, Prince Amethar Rocks, I am asking you respectfully to _shut the hell up_.” 

Amethar shuts the hell up.

Calroy’s face softens into a smile. He’s only seen Amethar look this afraid once before, and that was on the day they first met, when Calroy was bleeding out in his arms. The man can brave the battlefield, can stand up to the terrifying presence that is any one of his four sisters, can lead troops into war with not even a tremor of fear lowering his sword even an inch, but apparently, asking his friend to make out with him in a completely platonic way for mutual stress relief is too much.

“Yeah?” Amethar asks, tentative, and Calroy wraps his arms around Amethar’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss.

“Oh,” Amethar says against Calroy’s lips. Calroy chases that noise, chases it into Amethar’s mouth, kisses him hard enough that he almost forgets who he’s kissing.

Amethar’s still holding Calroy’s shoulders, and gently, he turns the two of them around until Calroy’s back is to the tree behind him. He pushes Calroy into it, easy, careful, slow, giving Calroy every opportunity he wants to break out of his grasp.

And now he’s entirely exposed, completely vulnerable, exactly where Calroy wants him, and Calroy still isn’t killing him.

Calroy bites on Amethar’s lip hard enough that it’ll hurt but light enough that it won’t seem intentional, but that bit of petty violence seems to do nothing to Amethar other than cause him to get even more into this kiss, which, okay, Calroy probably could have seen coming for a mile away. Still, it pisses him off.

He pushes upward, clacks his teeth against Amethar’s, lets himself be messy. Lets a cocktail of emotions—happiness at Donetta successfully murdering her parents, anger at Amethar for being such a genuinely likable person (not that Calroy actually enjoys being his friend, though), desire to just stick a knife in this man’s back and be done with it—pour into Amethar. 

Amethar takes it all in stride. Of course he does. He cares so much about Calroy, and it fills Calroy to the brim with an uncontrollable amount of rage.

He thinks that maybe killing Amethar right now isn’t the best move. He thinks that he can get rid of the Rocks sisters first. He thinks that he has another letter to write to Belizabeth, that he has plans to rewrite, that he can wait until the dust has settled to make subtle moves that might be undone in a moment during the tumult of war. He thinks that he’s not doing this for any reason other than that it makes sense politically.

And then Amethar’s mouth moves to his neck, and Calroy isn’t thinking much anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay SO cracks knuckles. basically as it says in here cal and donetta were friends and hung out together and both had very many grass is always greener feelings towards each other which were both semi-validated and also semi very not. donetta's parents #suck as people and as rulers and i think donetta should be a little evil too <3 so she's very much in on all this. and re: belizabeth, i think cal and belizabeth start plotting their powergrab pretty early into the chaos of war, and obviously ppl like ciabatta are added later, but yeah for right now it's just two young idealists convinced they can someday run the world. And Then The Mad Lads Actually Do It. oh and not mentioned or really relevant but belizabeth and citrina are super totally dating (in "secret" tho its a very poorly kept secret) at this point and belizabeth is super totally going thru her own crisis of 'oh fuck i have to kill this person eventually if i want to be the most important person in the church and sure i /can/ do that but im starting to think i might not want to'. 
> 
> lore dump over. thank you for sticking with me. kudos/comments always appreciated, and you can come find me @commaperson on twitter dot com!


	3. a can of moral gummy worms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s been through much bigger life events than a purely political marriage to his best friend—his real best friend—and he knows that. Hell, every day in the war was more of a gamble than this, when he’d hear Amethar’s other war buddies make comments about how unorthodox Calroy’s fighting style was, about how he handled a sword more like a tool than a weapon, about how House Cruller must train their knights very differently. When he had much more reason to fear that he’d get exposed as a fraud.
> 
> But he wouldn’t have fallen from so high back then. He might have made a comment about lying to be able to serve his country in the war, and they would have been fine with it. At this point, though, he’s halfway across a stream, and he can’t see the bank behind him. He has nowhere to go but forward. He has nowhere to climb but up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before you go into this you need to know that it is, according to brennan in one of the adventuring parties, in-universe canon that it's a superstition that saying the name of a magical weapon will mean that you will get killed by that weapon. you need to know i'm not just trying to smack you over the head with blatantly unsubtle foreshadowing. this is /for realsies canon/. also caramelinda is in this one. ALSO WARNING THERE'S SOME DISCUSSION OF KILLING A PREGNANT WOMAN that just feels like a lot more than the normal calroy murdery stuff and better safe than sorry! okay enjoy <3

3.

It proves rather difficult to try to plan an assassination and a wedding at the same time.

“I’m going to be your best man, right?” Amethar asks, as if he even needs to. Calroy had come to him just a day after deciding with Donetta that they should get married, asking him to be his best man, and Amethar had agreed without a second thought. They’d celebrated Calroy’s future union with Donetta by finding an empty alcove where they could make out and act about as mature as teenagers.

“Amethar, you already know the answer to that. You’ve known for ages. Of course,” Calroy tells him, but he’s not really paying attention. Some attendant is holding a to-do list in front of him and he’s pouring over it anxiously, because even though this wedding is the furthest thing from a romantic union, it’s still a political performance, and putting on a good show is arguably much more important than properly expressing love.

“Great,” Amethar says, patting him on the shoulder roughly. 

Calroy staggers a bit under the force but still doesn’t tear his eyes from the to-do list. Some part of his brain asks him when he became like this, when just a few years of being the right hand of the prince who is now king turned him into the type of man he abhorred when he was younger, but that’s a problem for later. Right now, the most pressing question is seating arrangements.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” Amethar asks, and Calroy knows he’s genuinely trying to be a good friend, but another person to babysit is not what Calroy needs right now, and he wishes Amethar would just go away already, and he wishes Amethar would just _die_ already, honestly, because Calroy is far too preoccupied with his nuptials to stick the dagger in himself. 

And then there’s that voice again, that itch at the back of his mind, and it’s begging him to look in a mirror, begging him to stare at himself and admit that it’s not just that he doesn’t want to kill Amethar today. It’s not just that he’s too busy for an assassination. He’s had years to do this, hundreds of opportunities, and each time, he manages to find a reason to not follow through. It’s that he wants Amethar to be dead, yes, wants him dead more than he wants almost anything else, wants to take the last obstacle to the throne out of the way, but he doesn’t want to do it himself. He wants Amethar dead, but he doesn’t want to kill him.

Bulb above. Is this what people mean when they say marriage turns a man soft?

“There isn’t, Amethar, unless you suddenly picked up the ability to read a checklist, so please just go take care of your pregnant wife before she complains to my bride-to-be or her Champion—who, you’ll remember, is a knight of my House—who then comes and complains to _me_ ,” Calroy snaps. His words, usually so carefully curated, come pouring out of him, a burst dam of prickly hostility and pent-up aggression, and he instantly regrets them.

“Calroy—”

“Amethar,” Calroy sighs, hoping to correct himself before Amethar makes the gearshift from supportive to upset. “I’m really, really sorry. Truly. I don’t know what came over me. I’m just… I’m overwhelmed,” he says, gesturing vaguely at everything around him. The room he stays in at Castle Candy looks like a tornado blew through it, papers scattered everywhere, swatches with color samples blanketing the bed, the chair in the corner completely invisible under a mess of fabric. 

Amethar gives him a look that says _Cal, we’ve been best friends for almost seven years, and I’ve been plenty overwhelmed over that time. I fought a war and won. My entire family died. I married my sister’s lover. I became King of a nation I wasn’t even willing to be the Prince of. And not once have I used that as an excuse for cruelty._

Amethar can’t be cruel. Amethar’s too earnest for that. Sure, Amethar’s been mean—he has his outbursts of passion, his forgetful moments where he doesn’t remember not everyone was raised with the same luxuries he was, times where the sheer pressure of being human overtakes him just as it could overtake anyone else—but he’s never been cruel. There’s a particular way to twist words, sharp as a knife, into the place that hurts most, and that’s cruelty. Calroy is extraordinarily talented at it, even when he doesn’t want to be. Calroy is a tangle of barbed wire hidden under a very thin blanket of down.

“Sorry,” Calroys says again. “That’s– no, that’s not an excuse. I shouldn’t have said that.”

And the worst part about all this is that he genuinely _does_ feel sorry. He wasn’t trying to piss Amethar off. He’s almost never trying to piss Amethar off, really, not in any way that counts. He pushes buttons here and there, calls him _Unfallen_ because he knows Amethar has days where he wishes that he wasn’t, puts the verbal equivalent of peas under the mattress that Amethar, a married man, still falls onto with him. 

(To be fair, they’re not really doing anything wrong by that. Caramelinda is entirely unfaithful as well. It’s not exactly an illicit affair if almost everyone in the castle knows it’s happening and just doesn’t talk about it. Besides, Calroy and Amethar have been—Calroy doesn’t know what to call it. “Sleeping together” seems too casual, somehow, even though Calroy is about zero percent emotionally invested in this—doing what they’re doing for the past five years (excluding the brief period of time during the war where Amethar just stopped hooking up with anyone at all), and old habits die hard.)

“It’s okay,” Amethar says. Quick to forgive a friend, though Calroy’s sure he’ll be less quick to forget. “Just… I’ll go, then, if you don’t need me. I’ll… yeah, I’ll check in on Caramelinda. She’s, uh. Her temper’s getting shorter every day.”

“Yikes,” Calroy says sympathetically, giving an apologetic hiss. He’s extremely grateful that he does not have to worry about an heir with Donetta. Not yet, at least. That’s a problem for after their marriage and after he becomes King. And even then, he’s sure he could figure out some way around it.

“Yikes,” Amethar echoes. “And no matter how hard I try, I always seem to manage to make it even shorter.”

“I’d love to offer my help and support, but, you know,” Calroy says. “Wedding planning is taking up most of my time as of late.”

“Why are you even having a wedding in the first place?” Amethar asks, as if he hasn’t asked this a hundred times before. As if Calroy hasn’t given him the same answer again and again. “You said all those years ago that you didn’t want to marry Donetta, that she could marry someone she loved—like, _loved_ loved, as a romantic partner as well as a friend—that it wasn’t a necessary union. You’re always telling me to do what makes me happy. Why can’t I do the same for you?”

“Because I’m your advisor, Amethar, and you’re not mine. This wedding is all about legitimacy. You’d understand that better than anyone else, wouldn’t you?”

Those are the barbs Calroy prefers. They’re smaller, easier to slip under Amethar’s skin, and take longer to extract. Amethar’s half-hidden grimace, frustrated and irate, makes Calroy’s stomach flip with easy delight.

“I would,” Amethar admits. He takes a step forward, and for one frightening, wildly irrational moment, Calroy is worried he’s going to try to kiss him right here in the middle of the day with an attendant standing directly in front of them.

Instead, Amethar wraps Calroy up in a brief but tight hug, and Calroy feels the wind fly out of his lungs. 

“Congratulations,” he says into Calroy’s ear. “I really do hope you two are happy.”

“We’re friends,” Calroy laughs. “She and I have been friends for forever. This isn’t going to change anything between us, though it’s quite judicious of you to care for your denizens, Your Majesty.”

“When you say _us_ , you’re not just assuring me that you’re gonna stay buddy-buddy with your wife,” Amethar says. States it like a fact. Pulls away from the hug and gives Calroy a simple, knowing smile.

“Well,” Calroy stammers, trying desperately to not trip and fall for the second time this conversation, “if you needed assurances that _our_ friendship was going to dissolve now that we’re both married men, you’re a bit of an insecure king, aren’t you?”

Amethar frowns. “Oh, Cal. _‘Your Majesty. King.’_ Can’t I just be your friend?”

“Of course, Amethar,” Calroy lies.

Calroy dismisses the attendant very shortly after Amethar leaves. He’s feeling distracted, and he needs to clear his head, and that’s not going to happen when he’s trying to figure out the difference between two ties in very similar shades of green.

He paces around his overcrowded room. He barely ever sleeps in here when he’s at Castle Candy—which, as the King’s foremost advisor, he quite frequently is—because Caramelinda spends most of her nights in the bedchambers of her Champion, and, well, it’d simply be unpatriotic to let the King’s nights be lonely ones, wouldn’t it? It feels so much like the backdrop to this stage play he’s spent all these years constructing, building with his bare hands. He could call himself a method actor, probably, because with each passing day he feels the line between pretending to be Amethar’s friend and actually being Amethar’s friend blur more.

It’s hard. It’s hard when Amethar _gets_ him, when Amethar can call him out for things like his double-entendre-assurances about friendships not dissolving after he marries Donetta, when Amethar can sense if he’s pissed off or happy or bored after spending just a minute around him, when he’s trying to walk the tightrope of letting Amethar in just enough so that he trusts him, but not letting him in far enough that he can figure out that Calroy is a man made of lies.

Maybe he should be burying himself in wedding planning, actually.

The suit hanging in the corner taunts Calroy. For some reason, this makes everything seem so official. 

It really shouldn’t. He’s been through much bigger life events than a purely political marriage to his best friend—his _real_ best friend—and he knows that. Hell, every day in the war was more of a gamble than this, when he’d hear Amethar’s other war buddies make comments about how unorthodox Calroy’s fighting style was, about how he handled a sword more like a tool than a weapon, about how House Cruller must train their knights very differently. When he had much more reason to fear that he’d get exposed as a fraud.

But he wouldn’t have fallen from so high back then. He might have made a comment about lying to be able to serve his country in the war, and they would have been fine with it. At this point, though, he’s halfway across a stream, and he can’t see the bank behind him. He has nowhere to go but forward. He has nowhere to climb but up.

And then during the war there was Sapphria’s death, and then Lazuli’s, and Citrina’s, and Rococoa’s, and each of those hit Amethar like a boulder. Each of them seemed to age him five years.

Calroy hadn’t known them for long, hadn’t spent too much energy on getting them to like him—they were going to die anyway, weren’t they? Sapphria should have known there was always going to be a spy better than she was, an assassin a bit more quick. Lazuli’d known it was coming for years, had told everyone all at once that she was going to have to die with the same placid expression on her face that she wore while reading a particularly uninteresting text, had not cried. Had not let Caramelinda cry in front of the rest of them, either. Belizabeth had bit the bullet in a way Calroy knows he’s going to have to as well, had run Citrina, the light that burned her, down in the street, had canonized her as a saint, had commissioned stained-glass windows, and Calroy still doesn’t know if the tears she shed at Citrina’s funeral were for show or for the Bulb or for her dead lover.

Rococoa had been last, and, _oh_ , it’d been satisfying as all hell for Calroy to watch her fall. The profit he’d made from the arrows that struck her was almost as satisfying a result of her death as Amethar’s shaking body, his broken voice, the fear in his eyes when he accepted that he was to be King of Candia. Almost as satisfying as Amethar coming to Calroy for comfort, not knowing he was the one responsible for putting him on the throne.

The war ended, but Calroy never really cared about who was going to win. The most important thing is that he survived. The most important thing is that he stayed on top. The most important thing is that people with goals that aligned with his got into positions of power.

And then there was Amethar and Caramelinda’s wedding, of course. A respectable affair orchestrated almost entirely by Caramelinda, not because Amethar is—or ever was—at all uncaring, but because Caramelinda simply gets politicking in a way that Calroy does and in a way that Amethar has never needed to. Calroy had stood at Amethar’s side and had thought of how fucking _surreal_ this all was. Calroy had toasted to the Unfallen at his reception and had quickly and discreetly disposed of the fork Amethar twisted in his hand at that title. Calroy had considered slipping poison into the congratulatory wine the Emperor had sent for the party. Calroy had considered murdering him a thousand different ways before the night’s end.

And yet none of that feels as life-altering as this does.

It’s a marker of what he’s achieved, he supposes. He’s been a Lord for a while, but this makes it all seem much more legitimate, and people’s perceptions of him are always going to be more important than the truth. He’s getting married, and the King of Candia, a man with a target on his back that Calroy himself has painted and is aiming for, is going to be his best man.

He needs some fresh air.

It’s not at all an unpleasant surprise to run into Caramelinda while he’s taking a walk about one of the gardens. There are a few of her guards nearby, far enough that they probably won’t be able to hear his conversation with her but near enough that they could protect her if it was needed, but that’s not a setback to Calroy. He’s not about to kill Caramelinda in broad daylight. Plus, there’s the whole question of her pregnancy, and that opens a can of moral gummy worms that Calroy does not want to deal with until at least after he’s married.

“Well met, my Queen,” he says, offering an arm for her to take.

She’s taller than he is, and she and her barely-there baby bump sure as hell don’t need any support, but still, she takes it graciously. It’d be impolite to not do so, and they both know that’s the only reason why she does it.

“Hello, Calroy,” she says, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “How goes the wedding preparations? It’s four days away, isn’t it?”

“Three,” he corrects.

“My apologies,” Caramelinda says, sounding not at all apologetic. Calroy is entirely positive she knows exactly when the wedding is.

He enjoys this game he plays with her. She’s never going to _like_ him, not really. Not for any ridiculous reason such as his sleeping with her husband, or anything. Simply because they’re both too quick and too clever and too desirous to wear a crown. Simply because neither of them are particularly keen on letting people in. Simply because he enables Amethar, and she tries to hold Amethar back, and they both envy and resent Amethar in equal parts for not being aware of the strings that are wrapped tightly around him.

She’s fun, though. He has to be on his toes whenever he’s talking to her. Each conversation is like a mildly dangerous game of chess.

“And how’s your pregnancy treating you?” Calroy asks.

“Quite well, thank you,” Caramelinda replies. “The clerics to whom I’ve spoken say my first trimester has been practically textbook perfect.”

“It’ll be a highbright child, won’t it?” Calroy muses, pretending to not notice at how Caramelinda’s expression sours at his treating her future child like an object. “My mother always told me never to run off with a man born during highbright. Said they’d always been far too temperamental.”

“Then let’s hope that they’re a daughter, shall we?” is Caramelinda’s smooth reply. “Besides, I don’t put much stock in superstition—”

Calroy bites his tongue and holds back an arsenal of quips about her being a devout Bulbian.

“—and I know you don’t, either,” Caramelinda continues. “You’re always throwing around the name of Amethar’s sword. So unless you harbor some deep desire for that myth to come to fruition...”

She manages to make the almost absent-minded way she trails off sound near-threatening. Calroy would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit impressed.

He shrugs, nearly throwing her off-balance, and tries to bite down laughter as she scrambles to keep hold of his arm. “Ah,” he says, “I know that the old wives’ tale about not saying the name of a weapon lest it strike you down is just that: an old wives’ tale. Amethar should, too, but he always looks so panicked and concerned for me every time I say ‘Payment Day’ in front of him, and, really, I can’t help myself. I just think it’s fun to tease him.”

“I know you do,” Caramelinda says drily, looking straight ahead.

Calroy does not really have a smart reply to that. “Well, I’m glad you’re staying healthy during all of this. I’m sure I don’t know what the country would do without its Queen, and I’m sure I don’t know what Amethar would do without his beloved wife by his side.”

“I’m sure I don’t, either,” Caramelinda says, voice hyperbolically sweet. She squeezes his arm just a bit tighter. “And, of course, you’d be bereft without a walking and talking companion such as myself, wouldn’t you?”

“ _Beyond_ bereft,” Calroy assures her, nodding his head rapidly. “Distraught, even.”

She flicks her eyes towards him, and for just a second, she peels away her uptight, put-together mask, and flashes a genuine smile. Quickly, though, she schools her features back into being blandly noble. “If you need any tips for wedding planning...” she starts, and takes a dramatic pause.

He doesn’t say anything. She wants him to say something, and he knows that, because as much as Calroy’s biggest strength is his speech, his silver tongue, he knows when to be silent, and it’s when he wants someone else to talk. Quiet desires to be filled. He’s not going to give it—or her—that satisfaction.

“...you can always tell Donetta to come to me,” she finishes. “I’m going to go lie down now. You wouldn’t mind walking me to Sir Maillard’s quarters, would you?”

“Not at all, my Queen,” he says.

She’s so unlike her husband. Her spine straightens at the title. Her grip loosens a bit, and Calroy’s arm no longer feels like it’s caught in a vice. She walks like she’s been ready to balance the weight of a crown on her head since birth.

Calroy supposes that when people are too alike, they’re never going to get along. He supposes that he’s always going to harbor some burning hatred for her, and that it’ll always be reciprocated.

For as long as she lives, that is. Which, if everything goes according to the most recent plan he and Belizabeth have drafted, will likely not be that long.

Calroy spends the vast majority of the day getting things ready for the wedding, talking to Donetta, and writing another correspondence to Belizabeth concerning the incorporation of Donetta into their plans, the role Amanda might play, and a potential ally they might find in an up-and-coming Ceresian senator. He’s so focused on his work that he doesn’t realize night has fallen until quiet blankets Castle Candy with a tangible weight, when he can see only by candlelight.

It’s late when Calroy finds his way to Amethar’s room. He has a dagger tucked into his waistband and a steeled heart and this would be a good time to do it, wouldn’t it? Kill Amethar before his heir is born? Kill his wife before the bump of her stomach gets large enough that it’s impossible to ignore? Take the throne and celebrate by getting married?

The door creaks slightly as it opens. The guards on either side of it pay Calroy no mind; they’re used to his coming and going as he pleases, and one of them even gives Calroy a nod of recognition as he enters. 

“The Queen in?” Calroy asks the guard, even though he knows the answer. Formalities are important, though. Formalities must be upheld.

“She’s… I don’t remember the excuse she gave me, actually. She’s with Sir Maillard,” she answers.

Calroy gives her a placated smile, hopes the corridor is too dimly-lit for her or her companion to see the outline of the weapon at his hip, and slips inside.

Moonbeams filters in through a much too large window, the curtains half-drawn. Amethar’s not afraid of the dark, but he doesn’t like the pitch black that Caramelinda allegedly needs to fall asleep (or so he complains, often and vocally, to Calroy). Amethar’s face is streaked in silver light, and the covers rise and fall slightly with his breath. He’s completely asleep.

It would be so easy for Calroy to kill him. He can practically feel the resistance of Amethar’s back muscles as Calroy slides a dagger towards his heart, the way Amethar might twitch against the hand Calroy would put around his mouth to silence him. He can practically feel the cold metal of the throne underneath him as he sits down on the corner of the bed, careful to not cause it to shift too much, careful not to jostle Amethar into wakefulness. He can practically feel Amethar’s blood seeping into the sheets, turning them soggy and sticky and licorice-red, as lies down on top of them.

He could leave, find Donetta, tell her to somehow relay a message to Amanda to kill the Queen. He could get rid of Caramelinda without having to worry about the moral complexities of her pregnancy. He could laugh about how idiotic these two are, how they’ve let people who are going to end their lives into their lives, their beds, their hearts. He could do it in a minute, and he could find a way to frame it on one of the guards outside, and he could draft a will in an imitation of Amethar’s shaky hand, and he could make himself King.

The dagger presses into his hipbone as he slowly slips under the covers next to Amethar. It’s sheathed, so it doesn’t cut him, but it still pinches. He trails a finger lightly down Amethar’s bare back and finds the place where he’s going to stick the blade in.

“Mm,” Amethar mumbles in his sleep. “The… mmph, ‘s on your left...”

Sleeptalking. Dreaming about the war again. Despite himself, Calroy rubs a soft circle into his shoulder, presses a soft kiss to his skin. “Just a dream,” he tells Amethar idly, quietly enough that were Amethar awake, he likely wouldn’t be able to hear it. “I’m here.”

And, no, those shouldn’t be comforting words—not to Calroy, at least—but Amethar would think they are. Amethar would find solace and safety in him. And that’s what’s important.

Calroy pulls out the dagger. He presses the tip against Amethar’s back. He takes a deep breath in. And out. And in.

He doesn’t do it.

It’s not that he can’t. He knows that he can. He knows that he _should_ , probably.

It’s just… well, he honestly doesn’t have many good friends other than Amethar, and he really doesn’t want to have to find a new best man three days before his wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the only thing i really have to add after this one is that i have decided that calroy is fantasy jewish (brennan said that cakes are born as a whole and they have to be severed into slices in a ceremony akin to a bris [jewish ceremony] ergo cal is /jewish/ okay i'm jewish i want him to be fantasy jewish i think it would be fun i already established him as Not Being Really Bulbian in like chapter one of this so yeah).
> 
> and ALSO i want to say that calroy's views on bulbism? bulbianism? fantasy christianity? do not represent my own not even a bit. Which like could totally be extrapolated from the fact that much if not all of calroy's views on pretty much everything in here do not represent my own like for example i Don't Want To Murder Amethar but like i digress. ANYWAY,
> 
> i have Thoughts and Feelings on d20's treatment of faith/religion/whatever in general just like as All Being Christianity and all being hurtful/uncaring christianity and /especially/ in acoc re: the bulb cares for no one, the bulb and the hungry one are the same, etc etc etc, especially as a religiously-active (is that a thing? i'm saying it's a thing) jew myself, and i'm not going to get into them here because like that is not at all what any of you signed up for but yeah. i don't like it it ignores both ppls good experiences w xtianity and, like, literally every non-xtian's experience with religion, good or bad. because despite what many xtians/ppl raised xtian seem to think, Religions That Aren't Christianity Actually Are Not Similar To Christianity At All So Please Stop Comparing Them Thanks I Will Murder Anyone Who Says Judeo-Christian Or Who Tries To Make A Blanket Statement About Abrahamic Religions.
> 
> wow okay that went off the rails jesus christ. Anyway tl;dr i generally don't like the way d20 does religion, though i have a lot to say abt fhfy and cassandra and judaism and christianity being seen as the default and ANYWAY wasn't this a tl;dr? REAL tl;dr is that i have lots of thoughts and this fic is—unfortunately for me but fortunately for you dear readers—not the place where i'm exploring them.
> 
> if you want to hear those thoughts please come talk to me @commaperson on twitter i would be delighted to have this conversation with anyone. sorry for my 400 word note ramble and, as always, thank you for reading, and kudos/comments always appreciated ! <3 <3 <3


	4. i'll damn well try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, Bulb above, Amethar is so sweet like this. Tired and in over his head and a second away from breaking. Calroy wants to hate him, but he finds it’s impossible to. This man is pushing himself to his mental and emotional limits—physical, potentially, too, if the look of exhaustion about him is due in part to lack of sleep, which it very well might be—to fully shoulder the burden he knows his wife usually helps him carry, and he’s not even let Calroy, his best friend, help him out. He’s wanted Calroy to assist Caramelinda instead. It’s so stupidly selfless that Calroy thinks he might vomit.
> 
> Calroy’s sure he has some cruel lie to tell, but nothing comes out of him save for the unabashedly affectionate truth. As they walk back to Amethar’s quarters, Calroy recounts how Caramelinda is doing, noting that she’s tired but happy, that the twins seem to be a lot but not at all too much for her to handle (every inch their father’s daughter), that she should be back on her feet soon enough. Sooner, probably, by sheer force of will and her queenly command. He tells Amethar that everything is entirely alright, and for once, he’s not hiding any sinister motives behind his reassurance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow! holy shit! it's been a hot moment, but here, have another chapter on this! no, i haven't abandoned it, i've just been suffering some severe wolf 359 (great podcast, you should all listen to it) and buffy the vampire slayer and veronica mars (great shows, you should all watch them) brainrot and have Not been productive as of late. but Yeah here is a new chapter! in the same vein as last chapter's warnings, this one has some light discussion of murdering babies, which i feel merits more of a warning than your regular calroy killy stuff, so yeah. Also i could not hold myself back so there's more cara cal banter in this one i just love writing them okay enjoy!

The twins are… squishy. Quite squishy. Calroy’s never held a baby before, but he’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to be this damn squishy.

He’s typically good at masking his— well, at masking whatever he needs to mask, but even such a practiced politician as himself can’t keep his nose from wrinkling when he holds Jet for the first time.

“Ha,” Caramelinda says, voice horse and somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I get it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he tells her.

“No, I know. You’re just an expressive man.”

He manages to keep his reaction to that under wraps. “Really? What makes you say that? Because, honestly, Caramelinda, one strategist to another, I try to keep my whole shtick pretty, y’know, subtle.”

“Mm. Takes a good mind to know a good mind, I suppose,” she says, smiling softly. “And, Calroy, I mean that in more ways than one.”

“Having children has made you soft,” he laughs. “You’re usually so hostile to me.”

“Having children makes me extraordinarily tired, and when I’m tired, I’m a bit less reticent, especially with regard to… well, you know, situations such as yourself.” Caramelinda waves a hand towards Calroy, and it’s only because he has tact that he doesn’t make some joke about people who sleep with the same man have to learn how to get along, or something.

That, and because Jet has started full-on bawling in his arms, and he’s kind of completely panicking.

“Can you– I don’t– Cara, please, what do I—”

She’s laughing as she takes Jet back from him. Nearly instantly, the tiny bundle of person calms down, turning back into a placid, adorable thing. Caramelinda holds her close to her chest, whispering shushing noises into her ear and bouncing her in place, and it’s so embarrassingly affectionate that Calroy feels as if he should turn away.

“Did you… ah,” he coughs, “I assume you called me in here for a reason other than holding one of the twins?”

“Yes,” Caramelinda says, and she’d be the paragon of all-business were it not for the baby in her arms and the messy way her hair falls around her shoulders and the bags under her eyes, more pronounced and less concealed than usual. “Despite the fact that the Castle seems to not have gotten this message, Candia still goes on, even with its Queen on bed rest for a little while longer.”

That’s true. Pretty much all operations have come grinding to a halt in favor of tending to Caramelinda’s every need, and as much as Calroy would love to blame her for that, have even more of an excuse to detest her, it’s very plainly not at all what she wants. So, as much as he dislikes her, he has to respect her for that, at least.

“Well, not Amethar.”

Caramelinda lets out an undignified snort. It’s so strangely human of a gesture that it causes Calroy to take a step back. He doesn’t think he likes seeing this side of her very much.

“Amethar,” Caramelinda says, voice uncharacteristically affectionate, “has decided that he is going to attend meetings without me and carry on leading the country.”

Instantly, Calroy is on high alert. “That’s… okay, he realizes that that’s a  _ bad  _ thing, doesn’t he?” Calroy asks, alarmed. 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Caramelinda says, a bit petulantly—the small child in her arms must be rubbing off on her—and, ah, there’s the Queen that Calroy knows and doesn’t love. “It’s just not traditionally how we’ve done things.”

Calroy knows this, of course. Amethar is a good-hearted man, a brilliant battle strategist, a nearly unparalleled warrior, but he’s not the political wit that Calroy and Caramelinda are. He’s also almost always overflowing with energy, forgetful on the best of days, and then there’s the simple matter of his genuine illiteracy. So, no, it’s not the best idea to have him alone without Cal or Cara by his side to steady him. Amethar’s not at all stupid, though. Calroy doesn’t like admitting it, but Amethar’s a very bright man. He was just never born or raised to be King, and though he’s doing the best he can to adjust to it, it’s hard to shake off twenty-plus years of being the youngest child.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Calroy asks, trying not to sound hurt. And he’s not hurt, really. He’s just a bit pissed that he’s been completely out of the loop on important matters in the past few days. Alliances can change in a second, so every hour Calroy spends not attached to Amethar’s hip is another hour that he’s not doing his job as well as he could be. 

Between bouncing Jet on her lap and sneaking glances at Ruby, lying asleep in a tiny little bed right next to her, Caramelinda manages a shrug. “I’m not sure. I suppose he— well, he has these fantasies about us being the best of friends.” Some fondness creeps into her attempt at being deadpan, and Calroy supposes that new motherhood must be doing a number on her, because he’s really never seen her unable to muster up an eye roll at an idea like that. “And, one strategist to another—” her repetition of his words from earlier forces him to bite back a grin “—I’m not entirely positive that’ll ever happen. We’re too similar to get along the way you and Amethar do. Not, of course, that either of us would, ah, want to  _ get along the way you and Amethar do _ .”

Calroy  _ pffts _ out a breath of laughter. “Agreed.”

Caramelinda holds Jet’s head gently, so gently, and there’s so much care in the gesture that for a second, Calroy manages to forget who he’s speaking to. As soon as she opens her mouth, though, Caramelinda sounds every inch a Queen. She continues, “But I’m sure he had some idea that you’d take care of me, or something, while he’s dealing with the whole being-a-King thing, which obviously has not happened because it has been quite a bit since I actually gave birth and this is the first time you’re seeing me. And, frankly, Calroy, that’s undiplomatic of you. I’d expected better.”

Caramelinda has this fantastic ability to make anyone feel abashed. She’s going to be a terrifying mother, Calroy is sure. “I… am not as wonderful with babies as I am with more grown people,” he admits.

“I can tell,” she laughs.

“Really, though,” he’s quick to say, “I apologize for not coming earlier. I agree that yes, we might not ever get matching friendship lockets, or anything of the sort, but, Caramelinda, I have so much respect for you as both a peer and as my Queen. I should have checked in on you sooner.” He bows his head slightly, keeping the resentment boiling in his eyes directed at the floor.

She  _ tsks _ good-naturedly. “I accept your apology. And you know you don’t actually have to keep watch over me, right? I’m a big girl. I’m a grown woman. I can handle myself, thank you very much.”

“I know you can,” Calroy says, and he means it. And then, boldly, “It’s a bit ridiculous how much of the castle’s resources have been dedicated to taking care of you, do you think?” 

“I’m almost positive that what you said falls under the umbrella of treason. You’re not gunning for a beheading, are you?”

“Could I really get beheaded for speaking the truth?”

“No,” Caramelinda snorts. “Not to me, at least. No matter how nice that sounds.”

“Your Majesty,” Calroy gasps, and, dammit, he’s spent too much time with Amethar, because he’s nearly forgotten that most royals actually do enjoy being addressed by title. Caramelinda sits up a little straighter at that, and the bed could almost be a throne for how self-assured she seems in occupying it.

“But I must agree,” Caramelinda admits. “I dislike it immensely. I feel beyond coddled. There are much better things for the staff of this place to care about than having a glass of cola on hand at any given second for such a fragile bird as myself.”

“And why haven’t you sent me along with Amethar to any of his important meetings?”

Caramelinda considers him for a moment. “Honestly? Aside from the fact that I’m a bit too busy caring for newborns to give much of a damn about the goings-on of my husband’s best friend? Because I think Amethar should grow into his own as a ruler, and you’re a heavy influence on him.”

“Oh, and you’re not?” Calroy’s smile is tight.

“I am,” she readily confesses. “I’m just a better one than you are.”

He really wishes he had no qualms about stabbing a woman in front of her infant children. And, no, she’s not wrong, and they both know it. But Caramelinda makes Amethar so stressed all the time, and Calroy never encourages him to make any decisions that directly impede the progress of Candia or its alliances, and it’s so much easier to have a handle on everything when Calroy’s the one telling Amethar what to do, not his wife. 

Caramelinda’s good at this stuff. She’s looking him in the eye, trying to read him, and on his worst days, he’s almost terrified that she knows what he’s doing.

Almost.

“We will have to agree to disagree, then,” Calroy says lightly. He takes a step backward, away from her and her children. “I mean, I would assume the King of Candia is a smart enough man to select the right person to be his most valued advisor, wouldn’t you?”

“Close the door on your way out,” is Caramelinda’s response. 

He very intentionally borderline slams it.

Ah, Caramelinda. Calroy—well, Calroy’s fine with killing Amethar, obviously, considering how long he’s been planning for it. The anticipation eats at him, filling him with an excitement that bubbles like cola and stings like sour candy against his tongue. Caramelinda is a different case. He’s going to miss these spats of theirs. He’s not going to miss her haughty expressions, self-important tone, or the vice grip she likes to keep on his arm whenever they walk around together. He’s not going to miss the true distaste she has for him, no matter how much respect for his mind she pretends might mitigate it. 

And, having now formally met the twins, he’s not going to miss them, much, either. It’s not as if he’s let himself get close to them. It’s not as if he’s ever going to. Sure, it’s uncouth and immoral and a whole host of other pejorative adjectives to murder infants in cold blood, but if it’s what must be done, Calroy’s sure he can do it.

Or throw that job to Amanda. Or Donetta. Or Belizabeth. He’s sure he can figure something out.

That’s not important right this second, though. What’s important is that an unmonitored Amethar hasn’t managed to fuck up everything Calroy’s spent ages orchestrated through him in a short span of time. What’s important is that he does damage control. He mentally kicks himself for not going to visit Caramelinda earlier. Damn weirdness about babies.

He doesn’t have to spend long looking for Amethar. He only has to turn one corner before actively colliding with him, because Amethar’s too preoccupied in trying to read a scroll in his hand to watch where he’s going.

“Hey!” Calroy says.

“So sorry,” Amethar starts, “so so so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going, I—”

He looks up and sees it’s Calroy and instantly, he melts. The stress falls off his face in layers, his shoulders fall back, and an easy smile spreads from ear to ear. It’s so mortifyingly open that Calroy feels a flutter of… disgust, probably, in his stomach. Maybe secondhand embarrassment. He can’t imagine going about life the way Amethar does, all genuine emotions and casual claps on the back and being painfully real.

“Hey,” Calroy says again, softer.

“Cal.” Amethar throws his arms around Calroy, all-encompassing and so very there, and Calroy’s suddenly struck by how little he’s seen of Amethar ever since Caramelinda gave birth. He really must have been burying himself in the work of Candia. Calroy knows all too well how much work that is, and he can’t help but be impressed that this man who can barely read and who has two newborns to fret over has committed to making sure the kingdom keeps moving so that his wife can get all the rest she needs to recover fully.

“How are you?” Calroy says into his shoulder. “Congratulations, again, on the twins.”

When Amethar pulls back, his eyes are shining a bit, and Calroy prays to a Bulb he doesn’t really believe in that Amethar doesn’t start crying, because dealing with a bawling Jet was enough damage control for one day, thank you very much, and he wasn’t even the one who calmed her down. “Thanks,” Amethar says, voice low. He sounds  _ exhausted _ . Calroy’s heart can’t help but twist in sympathy.

“Why have you been off on your own?” Calroy demands. “You’ve been so buried in work that you’ve been avoiding me. You shoo me away when I come to visit. What’s up with that? You know you can always call on me for all the help you need.”

“Yeah, I know,” Amethar says, raising a confused eyebrow. “I sent someone to ask you to take care of Cara while I did the whole King thing, didn’t I?”

“Uh,” Calroy says, because Amethar most certainly did not, and it makes total sense that in the chaos of kids and a kingdom and what with Amethar’s not-so-great short-term memory, he completely forgot to actually send the messenger. But he’s not about to put another stressor on Amethar’s plate. He’s too tired to squirm properly, so there’d be no enjoyment in it for Calroy. “Yes, you did, of course. I’ve been doing that. Visiting her and the like.” He hopes Amethar doesn’t check up on that, but if he does, he’s pretty sure Caramelinda would cover for him for exactly the same don’t-stress-Amethar-the-hell-out reason.

Amethar heaves a sigh of relief. “Good, good, good. I feel– fuck, Cal, I feel so bad about not being there for he– actually, do you wanna walk? We should walk and talk, I gotta get to my room, I can’t afford to take a nap right now but hell if I don’t want to, I have another meeting in an hour.”

“You don’t have to worry about it,” Calroy assures him, falling into step by his side. “I can go for you. I just got back from checking up on Her Majesty. She and the princesses are doing wonderfully. Take all the rest you need.”

Amethar gives him a quick smile of thanks. “I appreciate it, really, but I can’t do that. I’m not gonna half-ass my commitment to things, okay? I gotta be a good ruler. I gotta be a good dad. And right now that means I gotta make sure Cara doesn’t have to care a damn about anything other than the twins, and once she’s back to being able to move around and do stuff, I’ll be the best damn dad Calorum’s ever seen. It’s just that since all her energy is on the kids right now, all mine has to be on the country. That’s like our third child, y’know? And, well, I shouldn’t be neglecting my third child,” he says, voice twisting bitterly, and Calroy doesn’t really get why, but he chalks it up to exhaustion and not being used to actually running the country on his own and a never-to-be-fulfilled desire to play with his kids the way any normal dad could.

“Okay,” Calroy concedes. “In that case, will you at least let me accompany you to it? You’ve got to take a breather, man. At least let me scribe for you. Do some note-taking.”

Amethar’s laugh is shaky. “Yeah, okay. Thank you. Thank you, Cal. Before we get into parsing the politics that I’m sure have half gone over my head, though, just update me on how my wife and kids are? I… really hate how much I’m not able to see them right now.”

And, Bulb above, Amethar is so sweet like this. Tired and in over his head and a second away from breaking. Calroy wants to hate him, but he finds it’s impossible to. This man is pushing himself to his mental and emotional limits—physical, potentially, too, if the look of exhaustion about him is due in part to lack of sleep, which it very well might be—to fully shoulder the burden he knows his wife usually helps him carry, and he’s not even let Calroy, his best friend, help him out. He’s wanted Calroy to assist Caramelinda instead. It’s so stupidly selfless that Calroy thinks he might vomit.

Calroy’s sure he has some cruel lie to tell, but nothing comes out of him save for the unabashedly affectionate truth. As they walk back to Amethar’s quarters, Calroy recounts how Caramelinda is doing, noting that she’s tired but happy, that the twins seem to be a lot but not at all too much for her to handle (every inch their father’s daughter), that she should be back on her feet soon enough. Sooner, probably, by sheer force of will and her queenly command. He tells Amethar that everything is entirely alright, and for once, he’s not hiding any sinister motives behind his reassurance. 

Outside of Amethar’s door, they stop. Calroy puts a hand on Amethar’s arm. “Amethar,” he says, slow and steady, “you are going to be a very good father.”

Amethar takes a moment to do nothing but breathe. “I’ll damn well try,” he says finally, and pushes his way into the room.

And now Calroy is at a crossroads. This would be such a good time to kill Amethar. He’s positive that he somehow managed to screw something up, that some Ceresian nobility was offended by an offhand thing Amethar said, or that some representative from Brightgarden got uncomfortably up close and personal with the fact that Amethar is nowhere near as devout as his dearly departed saint sister. Caramelinda’s bedridden, unable to fight back, and a quick dispatch from Calroy could get Amanda knifing her and her kids in a heartbeat. Or, if he wanted to play a bit of a longer con, he’s sure he could send her away to Muffinfield for “safety’s sake” and send a missive to Donetta ahead of time instructing her to prepare a fine wine and some finer poison. 

It would be so simple. Already he can hear snoring from inside the room—Amethar couldn’t stay awake for more than a minute even though he said he had to, and, sure, he’s tired as hell and looks to be about a second from dying, but, really, he should have his shit together, shouldn’t he?—and while it’s not exactly brave to kill a sleeping man, it’s not exactly hard, either. Besides, if Amethar really isn’t expected to do anything for another hour, that’s a whole hour Calroy can spend discussing his next move with Amanda and pinning the assassination on literally anyone else in the castle. 

But the thing is, Calroy doesn’t actually have a weapon on him right now. Which is an upsetting realization. When did he stop tucking a dagger into his boot? Has he let this castle make him soft, tear his guard down? It must be an accident, he’s sure, a single day of forgetfulness, getting caught up in the hassle of Caramelinda’s kids and how distant Amethar has been—how busy with running the country Amethar has been, how determined to be the leader it deserves—and, fuck, Calroy’s an idiot. Calroy’s an unarmed idiot and he can feel himself slipping off a ledge and he’s determined to not let himself get dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks below.

He thinks about their first meeting, about how the only thing between them was a dagger and Calroy’s lies. He thinks about how there’s even less now. He thinks about Amethar’s tired smile and Amethar’s tense shoulders and he finds himself in Amethar’s room, closing the door quietly behind him (much more quietly than he’d closed the door behind him upon leaving the infirmary-type room where Caramelinda was resting), and Amethar is certainly a sight.

It’s a little after midday, and sunlight streams in through grandiose windows. Amethar is passed out on the bed, face buried in pillows, still entirely clothed in all his royal robes and whatnot. The crown’s been flung unceremoniously from his head, and Calroy nearly trips over it as he walks towards Amethar.

Calroy stubs his toe on it. “ _ Shitshitshit _ ,” he hisses, jumping a bit in place, willing himself to stay to a whisper lest he wake Amethar. 

He doesn’t stir, though. He must really be tired.

Calroy picks up the crown and almost mindlessly sets it down on the bedside table, not paying it much mind. He’s held it in his hands before—hell, he’s worn it before, because Amethar doesn’t mind him putting it on and doing a mocking little imitation of him that’s become a little too nice over the years (probably the pressure of the metal against his temples distracting him from operating at peak cruelty)—and it’s not so special after all these years.

He remembers when it used to be an elusive, mysterious thing. Now it’s just a hunk of cold metal that’s caused his toe to throb painfully. A useless accessory standing quite literally between himself and Amethar.

It could be something, though. A weapon. Just because Calroy is ( _ idiotically, Bulb above, Cruller, you’re better than this _ ) without a traditional weapon doesn’t mean he has to leave the room with Amethar still breathing peacefully in his sleep. Calroy’s a resourceful man, a cunning one, someone who is damn good at thinking on his feet, and there’s a billion things in this room he could use to kill Amethar. 

He could brain him with the crown, of course. And how fucking symbolic that would be? Beat him to death with the representation of his own undeserved power. Crush his thick skull in and let his royal blood stain his royal silk pillowcases. Speaking of which, he could smother Amethar, too. And in his sleep, he’d probably die without making much of a sound. He could strangle Amethar with one of the curtain cords. He could find a hairpin—he’s sure Caramelinda’s left one around here somewhere—and puncture Amethar’s windpipe. Hell, he could use his own two hands to murder Amethar, could climb on top of him and push him into the mattress and feel him move under his touch for a very different reason than usual.

He doesn’t, though. He sets the crown down on the bedside table. He sets it down, and he sits next to Amethar, and he puts his head in his hands, and he groans.

For the first time, Calroy thinks he might be a little bit in over his head.

It’s a temporary thought, fleeting as a bird, and Calroy hates himself for having it even momentarily. He’s better than this. Stronger than this. He’s got as much mental fortitude as Amethar Rocks has physical strength, and ten times as much cleverness and determination. This is a second-long setback, and Calroy can move past it.

Amethar should probably be presentable by his next meeting, though. And, sure, it’s not for almost an hour, but Calroy wants to go over notes from everything he’s missed while Amethar’s been attempting to singlehandedly handle Candia’s politics. After all, if Calroy’s losing his grip on himself, he certainly can’t have anything else slipping out of his control.

He shakes Amethar awake much more roughly than is strictly necessary. “Amethar,” he says. “Amethar Rocks. Your Majesty.”

“Wh… what.”

“Amethar, you fucking passed out.”

“Ugh,” Amethar groans, turning over. He blinks sleep from bleary eyes. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“You should be,” Calroy says harshly. “You said you didn’t have time to nap. I don’t have time for it, either. C’mon. Up. You’ve got to go over everything I missed.”

“Okay, okay,” Amethar says, pushing himself to his feet. “Sorry, again, really. I… shit, I’m more tired by all this than I thought I’d be.”

“Idiot,” Calroy berates, but he’s fond as all hell and Amethar knows it. “This is what you get  when you don’t ask your best friend to lend you a hand. I’m better with politics than I am with babies and your wife. You can’t exactly make a clever treaty with an infant, can you?”

“You could,” Amethar says. He cracks his neck once, twice, and Calroy holds back a wince at the noise. “If anyone could do that, it’d be you.”

“Ha,” Calroy says. “I appreciate your support, Your Majesty.”

Amethar rolls his eyes. “Amethar, Calroy. It’s been years. You know it’s Amethar.”

“Of course.”

“Now, okay, come here,” Amethar instructs, gesturing towards what appears to be an unorganized pile of scrolls. Calroy knows better, though. Amethar has this insane everything-in-its-place brand of chaos under which he operates, and though Calroy is positive he himself would see absolutely no system of organization to the clutter, Amethar is able to sort through it with the ease of a fish swimming downstream. “I, uh, my notes aren’t great, considering— well, you know, but they make sense to me, and if you want, I can dictate them to you and you can write your own copy for yourself. And Caramelinda, too,” he adds. “I’m sure she’ll want to know what she missed, and she’ll run me outta this castle if she can’t understand what the hell I wrote down.”

“That’d be great, Amethar,” Calroy says. He grabs a pen and paper and sits down on Amethar’s bed, ready to write.

Amethar looks up at him. Sunlight’s hitting his face, illuminating his warm brown eyes and the gold buttons on his shirt. “Thanks,” Amethar says. “For– for helping. With Caramelinda. With this. With—” he waves a hand around, gesturing vaguely, nearly toppling a pile of scrolls over “—everything. Always.”

“It’s nothing,” Calroy assures him. “I love you. I love your family. I’m always going to be right beside you, you know that? With you till the end.”

Amethar, so very alive and so very frustrating in all his living, breathing glory, gives Calroy a comforting smile, and Calroy tries to not break the pen in his overtight grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! this is where i'd normally plug my twitter, but i got permabanned for saying i wanted to beat up oikawa from haikyuu, so like. don't follow me @commaperson on twitter because that account doesn't exist anymore! i might make a tumblr. who knows. for now i'm vibing on discord and trying to not die from the stress of college applications. oh actually my plug for the week is follow @archive81bot because i run that bot and also listen to archive 81 it's a great podcast and it's gonna be made into a tv show which is fuckin rad as hell!
> 
> and this is also typically where i do lore dumps or talk about d20 or something, but i honestly don't have much to say other than sorry that this chapter was not that great, i'm trying to get back into writing semi-regularly after a while of really just not doing it, so. Not my finest work. but fun as FUCK to write, holy shit i love caramilflinda and i love amethar canonically illiterate rocks and i love calroy hot fucking mess cruller. so yeah! stream tuc2!
> 
> and as always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated :] thanks all of you for reading!


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